


fulminate

by entropy_muffin



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dissociation, Episode: s03e11 The Day of Black Sun Part 2: The Eclipse, Fire Nation (Avatar), Fire Nation Lore (Avatar), Fire Nation Politics (Avatar), Gen, Imperialism, Nationalism, POV Outsider, Politics, Worldbuilding, Zuko (Avatar) Angst, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, you can see the pattern here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27005713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entropy_muffin/pseuds/entropy_muffin
Summary: The sun sets on the Day of Black Sun. The coronation is held at dawn.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Fire Nation Citizen(s) & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar) & Original Character(s)
Comments: 198
Kudos: 604





	1. + cation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Towards the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19252807) by [MuffinLance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuffinLance/pseuds/MuffinLance). 
  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [Chuthulhu (Mangaluva)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangaluva/pseuds/Chuthulhu), [Mangaluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangaluva/pseuds/Mangaluva). Log in to view. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkest day in Fire Nation history gets a little bit darker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I’ve never actually published one of my personal writing projects on here, so I hope you enjoy! I was heavily inspired by Muffinlance so you may recognize many of the concepts and headcanons/characters as hers. I wanted to do a slightly darker take on the concept... Trigger warning for this chapter for some graphic imagery, so be warned!

He stands before the bunker doors, gathering his resolve. He’s ready to face him.

They open with a displeased shriek, metal grating against the cavern walls. He steps into the room.

“Prince Zuko. What are you doing here?” 

The Fire Lord rises from his throne, a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes before his expression settles into indifference. 

“I’m here to tell the truth,” Zuko states. His heart is pounding in his chest but outwardly he is calm, determined, a mirror of the placid figure before him.

“Telling the truth during the middle of an eclipse. This should be interesting.” 

His father eyes him dispassionately, waving the guards away. They file obediently out of the room, footsteps echoing in the empty cavern. They are alone.

Zuko faces his father and for the first time since that fateful day he speaks his mind. He lays down all his struggles, his self-deceptions, his regret, like lancing a festering wound. No more of the self doubt or duty-bound silence, no more of the courtly lies and machinations. It goes just as he had rehearsed it, years of frustration and hope and anger all bubbling to the surface, until:

“Don’t you want to know what happened to your mother?”

He feels the shock like falling into the polar ocean, the euphoria of finally standing up to his father with impunity instantly doused by dread. As with most of his feelings, it quickly transforms into anger.

“What happened that night,” he growls.

The guilt and fury warring within him grow with every poisonous word his father speaks, knowing the man is stalling but unable to bring himself to care.

“Your mother did vicious, treasonous things that night… She knew the consequences and accepted them,” he purrs.

Hot rage fills him like a sliver of sun, stoking his inner flame into a supernova. 

“You killed her.” 

He smirks, stepping forward into a familiar stance. Too late he realizes it is more than just anger fueling the inferno within him.

“Now I realize that death is far too merciful a punishment for treason. Your fate will be far steeper.”

He smells the ozone building before he can even blink. The cavern fills with blue-white light, twin bolts of electricity arcing straight towards Zuko. Instantly he assumes the stance that had been drilled into him so many times before. The sheer power of the attack pushes him backwards, struggling to contain it. His back hits the wall of the cavern as he absorbs the blast. 

It’s invigorating, incandescent, and so, so painful; nothing has burned quite like this. It consumes him. He shifts through the forms so unthinkingly it’s like breathing. In, around, out. Overcome by anger and pain and something entirely more powerful— pure, white hot rage— he doesn’t even have to think as he takes his aim.

The energy courses through him and back out in an instant, right towards where his father is standing.The explosion blasts him backwards with a deafening crack, fingertips burning with residual lightning. 

He collides with the cavern wall, the breath instantly leaving his lungs. Sparks dance along his body, dissipating in white hot bursts. He blinks away the spots in his vision, blinded. His ears ring, and his whole body feels raw and tingling, heart stuttering. He gasps for air, blood trickling from his nose and into his throat. His mouth tastes like iron. He feels numb.

On the other side of the room, the tapestries on the walls of the bunker are set aflame. His father lies prone, buried in rubble. He isn’t moving.

Zuko sits there in shock, sprawled against the wall for what seems an eternity until he is startled out of his daze by a dislodged chunk of the cavern ceiling. He leaps out of the way, movements clumsy, and stumbles to the floor.

When the dust has settled and the flames have gone down, having consumed everything in their path, he rises shakily to his feet and slowly makes his way across the cavern to where the body is buried. 

He stares down at the charred form of his father. 

One of the tapestries, only slightly singed, has fallen, concealing the lower half of his body like a blood-stained shroud. His face is still visible under the rubble, hair in disarray and blood trickling from his ears. His eyes are swollen shut. Lower down his chest is a mess of scorched fabric and underneath...

He vomits. 

The worst thing is the smell. It’s one he is intimately familiar with, the putrid scent of burnt flesh no different than in all of his worst nightmares.The haze of lingering ozone and smoke and his own sick do little to cover it up. He turns away, gagging.

Why hadn’t the guards come? The eclipse was already over, and surely they had heard the blast. Where did they go?

He hears footsteps. Why did he tempt the spirits? He knows what is coming but can’t bring himself to run.

It’s not the guards. It’s Azula, though a small retinue soon falls into step behind her.

His sister walks into the cavern, takes in the horrific sight, and screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you would like to see more please tell me what you thought in the comments, it would really make my day! I can’t promise consistent updates due to school/work restraints, but I have a lot of ideas for this au so we’ll see! Stay tuned.


	2. + complication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude in which Guardsman Chan-Ri provides her perspective on Fire Nation politics and current events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos! I was really surprised and grateful for the response this has received. The first chapter was by far the hardest for me to write, so hopefully we’ll get the plot rolling soon! This one isn’t as graphic as last chapter, but trigger warning for emetophobic readers just to be safe. Enjoy :)

The guards are met with a gruesome sight.

The bunker is in shambles; rubble coats the floor, the ground is littered with scorched tapestries, the putrid smell of burnt flesh permeates the stale cavern air and in the center of it all…

Guardsman Chan-Ri steps back half a pace and fights the urge to vomit. The newbie, Arata, doesn’t get that far. 

(She pities him. She remembers doing the same the first time she’d seen a dead body. Friendly fire. The memory pales in comparison to the sight before them. The front lines are nothing compared to Royal Guard detail; they have a comparable turnover rate, too. At least the pay is decent.)

He’s young, not more than twenty summers. No doubt some wealthy merchant’s non-bender brat hoping to hop the draft. Not like anyone could blame him. 

He retches awfully. It does nothing to improve the atmosphere. The others, hardened by war or years’ experience, stand aside grimly. 

What even is the protocol for this?

The facts are these: The Fire Lord is dead. By all appearances, his son, the Crown Prince, had killed him. 

The nation is in the grips of a war they had waged for nearly a century. They are nearing the end of their momentum. 

The Home Guard garrison had just earlier today beaten off an enemy invasion force. The nation cannot afford to appear weak.

The throne cannot remain empty.

Prince Iroh had been declared a traitor, and besides is nowhere to be found. The Prison Guard garrison had sounded the alert just before the eclipse. Probably long gone by now. Were he to make a claim, he would have considerable support from several factions; most of the old guard, several prominent generals, and a persistent underground loyalist movement.

But Prince Iroh had been snubbed from the succession before and he had not contested the claim, though he had every right to. The proclamation was made: as per the Fire Lord’s dying wish, out of deference to his firstborn’s grief, the throne would henceforth pass to his second son, Prince Ozai.

(Ozai was young, powerful, and ambitious; more importantly, he had two healthy heirs. It was the kind of ruthless pragmatism one would expect from his majesty Fire Lord Azulon. A little too pragmatic. Azulon had been ancient, but Sozin had lived well into his hundredth summer. Everyone knew this, but no one dared voice it outside of their most private sanctums, lest they too pass away  
peacefully in their sleep.)

The princess is by all regards a prodigy, but is far too young to take the throne. Only fourteen summers, a child really, and obviously suffering from some kind of nervous breakdown. She had let out a truly horrific scream, one that sent them all running, and then had broken down on the cavern floor having some kind of fit. She lay there, still, like a broken doll.

The Crown Prince is there, standing in front of the body. It should have been simple: he is Crown Prince, therefore he should be next in line. Even when banished he had never been struck from the succession; by legal rights, he should take the throne. But there are bigger problems to think of.

Patricide. Regicide. Or perhaps Agni’s Mandate?

(At least with Azulon there had been some plausible deniability.)

The prince… stands there, staring blankly. He looks dazed and slightly singed. Blood trickles sluggishly from his nose. 

He’s young. Younger than Arata, even. Not a child, but certainly not a man. The same could be said of many of the newest conscripts; but in the eyes of the law, he was technically of age.

According to the controversial proclamation that had ultimately led to the massacre of the newly recruited 41st Division, the legal age of majority in the Fire Nation is sixteen summers. Supposedly this change served to “provide expanded privileges and responsibilities to the nation’s youth,” but everyone knew it was just a thinly veiled excuse to lower the draft age. 

(Her brother had served in the 41st. He was only seventeen.)

She thinks about him as she looks at the boy-prince before her; would she trust the ruling of the nation to a child almost the same age as Cheng-Li had been when he died? 

(It’s not up to her.)

If the Sonzai Dynasty fails to step up to the throne, there will be bloodshed the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the Camellia-Peony War. And as soon as the news of civil unrest spreads, as soon as the Fire Nation shows the slightest hint of weakness, the other nations will swarm like piranha-sharks at first blood. The last thing they need right now is a war of succession. One way or another, it will be decided tonight.

“Someone summon the Fire Sages,” barks the senior guard, Captain Izumi, ever the pragmatist. That’s why she’s the captain and I’m just lieutenant, thinks Guardsman Chan-Ri, who stands there, frozen by the weight of her indecision. She’s still struggling to settle her stomach after their gruesome welcome and the new kid’s display.

Junior Guardsman Arata, eager for an excuse to leave the room, makes excellent time out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked it please leave a comment, I crave validation and it helps me write faster! If you want to chat about my fic or just avatar in general check out my new discord server: [avatar: the last fic server](https://discord.gg/T92fzwr)  
> Like I said before, updates may be sporadic due to the fact that I have a life outside of fanfic (unbelievable, I know) so as always, thanks for reading and stay tuned!


	3. + consultation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fire Sages weigh in. Zuko has a minor dissociative episode. It’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m alive! Thanks to everyone who left a comment last chapter, I cherish every one of them. The past month has been crazy, but at least I passed the first round of midterms! This chapter beat me to death in the parlor with a candlestick but hopefully it was worth the wait. Anyway please enjoy :)

It seems an eternity before the sages arrive. The wait is steeped in awful silence. Uncle would have had a proverb about that, Zuko thinks. Something about tea leaves and bitterness. He isn’t sure. He’s never been the best with words.

He wonders where Uncle is right now. He had checked the Capital Prison before the eclipse, meaning to set him free, to set things right, but the cell had been empty. Probably long gone by now. Does he miss Zuko? Or is he better off without him? It shouldn’t even be a question. Zuko is incapable of anything but betrayal.

Finally the young guard returns with sages in tow, their faces grave. His armor is crooked, Zuko notes absently. He turns green as he catches sight of the scene once more. Zuko can relate; his mouth still tastes sour from his earlier weakness.

“Prepare the rites,” one of the sages, presumably the head sage from his advanced age, orders. Two of the others roll out long strips of silk and wrap up the body, carrying it from the room. 

Zuko feels a vague sense of relief.

He straightens as the head sage steps forward. 

“Prince Zuko,” the sage rasps.

Zuko meets his gaze, uncomprehending.

“Might we request a more private audience?”

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in. A private execution. Of course.

He follows as they lead him to the nearby antechamber. The buzzing in his head has returned with a vengeance.

One of the guards, the senior captain by the make of her armor, moves to follow.

“Dismissed,” he addresses the guard, who levels a look of professional disapproval at this but promptly steps back, reprimanding the rest of her detail who have been watching with veiled interest. They file obediently out of the chamber, Azula walking between them without a word. She has pulled herself together somewhat since her earlier outburst; her hair is still in disarray but her face is blank, a single, perfect tear trailing down her cheek. She meets his gaze as she passes, eyes dark and calculating, silently accusing. 

He turns away and follows the sages into the chamber to await his judgement.

* * *

High Sage Fujio is met with a dilemma. The proper course of action should be clear; patricide is frowned upon in the Fire Nation, regicide even more so. The consequences are final.

But Fujio is an old man, and he has not lived this long by being rash. 

The royal line does not have heirs to spare.

He must admit he holds some fondness for the boy, which colors his hesitation as well; once he had even held hopes that he would someday join their ranks, as those of the lesser branches of the royal line were wont to. It was considered a great honor to give a firstborn son into the service of Agni. However, it was not to be; the boy had been thrust up the line of succession at a rate thus far unprecedented within the span of a decade. Perhaps it was destined to be so.

It was he who had saved him from being declared sickly at birth, little more than sixteen summers ago. The child had been born too soon. It was the dark of the winter solstice too, an inauspicious hour. His father had taken one look into his eyes and declared him worthless; but Fujio had seen the spark in them, the determination of a tiny flame fighting to live. And so he had taken mercy on the small child and the Princess, who had fought so fiercely even weakened as she was.

Looking at the boy before him now he can still see the flame in his yellow-gold eyes, though they appear hollow, glazed. Once again he holds his life in his hands. It is a heavy weight to bear.

The Fire Sages are, according to tradition, the ultimate spiritual authority of the Fire Nation. Once, the Fire Lord had been the Head Sage, with a council of sages to offer guidance, but now the positions are separate, merely a relic of times long past in the secular imperial state. Privately he thinks that the nation has distanced itself too much from spiritual affairs; no one pays proper respect to the spirits anymore. 

He has heard rumors of local spirits returning in the outer island villages, displeased with the factories polluting their rivers. This year’s typhoon season has been the worst in a century, ever since that foolish Zhao had angered the ocean spirit. And lately the sleeping giants have been stirring... certainly an ill portent. Sozin’s draconian laws will surely lead the nation into ruin. 

He has also heard what has become of the Crescent Island order. He knows better than to publicly defy the will of the Fire Lord.

But the Fire Lord is dead, on the Day of Black Sun no less. It is a powerful omen indeed.

Balance must be restored. And the line of succession must be maintained at all costs. Agni’s Mandate demands it.

He knows what must be done. He only prays he can convince the others.

As High Sage, he has considerable influence over his peers. He knows Ryujin and Xian will go along with whatever he deems necessary; Sheng and Ito will be harder to convince. 

But they have looked the other way before.

* * *

Zuko knows he should probably be paying attention, but he can’t seem to stop floating. It feels nice, peaceful for once, nothing like being stranded on a raft in the polar ocean for weeks. He tries to anchor himself, taking deep breaths like Uncle always told him to do. The thought of him aches, like jostling a broken rib. It’s enough to bring him back to the present.

They stand in a half-circle, murmuring.  
Probably deciding whether to make the execution public or not. 

He had given his testimony woodenly, expecting no clemency. Time seems to have congealed like cold jook until his perception of reality wobbles, glutinous, lethargic on the periphery. Still, the decision seems to be taking longer than is necessary. 

Zuko is sure he should be feeling something about this development. Instead he feels like an observer in his own body, like his spirit has passed on to the next world leaving only a hollow shell behind. He makes a half-hearted attempt to ground himself, focusing on the muttering whispers he can detect from his good ear. 

“There are few precedents,” the sage pauses, considering. “The Koizen dynasty perhaps…”  
Another sage interrupts. “But given the circumstances, perhaps it could serve as a tacit challenge…”

Zuko watches the wrinkled folds of his mouth with morbid fascination as it opens and closes, loose skin flapping like the death spasms of a beached whale-shark. 

“—could be considered…”  
“...provoked—”  
“— an informal duel…”  
“...inauspicious circumstances.”  
“—patricide…”  
“...Agni’s Mandate.”

He only catches snippets of the hushed conversation. If he really tried, he could probably figure out what they are saying, but he feels too drained to focus, words blending together into meaningless jumbles of sound.

All his life, Zuko had been a roiling storm of emotions. Joy, outrage, anger, fury, all manifesting in a passionate blaze. Now he feels still, frozen over like a glacier, vast depths contained underneath the surface. Like he could crack at any moment. 

He curls his fingers idly. He thinks he can feel the echoes of lightning sparking around his fingertips.

Suddenly the room goes quiet. The absence of sound is somehow more jarring than the incessant whispering had been. It seems to echo in the cavernous space. 

The High Sage meets his gaze and bows, the rest of the sages following suit.

Zuko’s mouth feels dry. The dread which had abated somewhat in his absent state returns tenfold.

The sage delivers his verdict.

“The Dragon Throne falls to you, Prince Zuko.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And thank you for your patience; if you enjoyed it please tell me what you liked in the comments!
> 
> If you want to chat about my fic or just avatar in general check out my new discord server: [avatar: the last fic server](https://discord.gg/YZbbNbr)  
> (seriously please talk to me I’m lonely)
> 
> Thanks again and as always, stay tuned!


	4. + coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All hail Fire Lord Zuko. Long may he reign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really excited about the response this has recieved! This is my first real fic I've posted in years, so I'm grateful for the support. In other news, I have a midterm and a surgical consult coming up on Monday, so wish me luck! Thank you to everyone who commented, I love reading all of your thoughts on the story. Please enjoy :)

Zuko stands stiffly on the dais, overlooking the crowd of mourners. 

All he can see is white. The flash of the lightning burning into his retinas, the pallid crowd of ceremonial robes that make the courtyard look like it has been coated in ashfall, the silk sarcophagus containing his father’s charred remains.

The preparations had gone by in a blur. Part of him is still in shock; out of all the scenarios he had pictured in his head, this had never been among them. He is not ready to be Fire Lord.

He hadn’t slept; despite years of experience burning on embers, he had felt barely awake, existing somewhere outside his body as servants rushed to dress him in traditional white silk. It drapes over his body like a shroud, suffocating. The sensation, though unpleasant, grounds him to reality. He feels very awake now.

He resists the urge to scratch at the collar.  
He hasn’t seen Azula anywhere. He’s not sure whether to be relieved or worried.

There is movement to his left. A pale figure manifests from the shadows. Azula appears, dressed in flawless mourning attire, not a hair out place, almost as if he had summoned her with his thoughts. 

She had loved to pretend omniscience when they were younger; they used to play together at being spymaster before she had decided she was too old for such games. She always seemed to know things she shouldn’t. He knows now that it was just because she was smaller and could still fit into the service passages. Still, he could never explain how she always knew what he was thinking. She had always had an uncanny knack for it, like she was eavesdropping on his innermost thoughts. 

He wonders if she knows what he is thinking right now. He hopes not. He’s been told he shows too much on his face, and one thought in particular burns him to the core.

He doesn’t regret it.

Smoke curls lazily into the morning air, settling thickly in the courtyard and suffocating everyone within, not helped by the veritable pyres of cloying incense. It’s unseasonably cold for a summer morning, despite the lack of wind. The caldera nearly always keeps out the worst of it. The flames burn on, unflinching. 

The sun has yet to rise over the mouth of the crater, so they stand draped in shadow.  
Dawn will arrive shortly. An auspicious hour, according to the sages.

Zuko is filled with dread.

He had attended a coronation before, his father’s, held on the same day as grandfather’s funeral. He had stood here in this same spot, if a bit further to the side. But the uncertainty and fear he had felt then pale in comparison to what he feels in this moment.

He remembers wondering if he was breathing in his grandfather’s ashes. The thought makes him feel sick. The air is still, stagnant; it does nothing to disperse the shroud of smoke and incense that fills the courtyard. He is only too familiar with the scent of burning flesh; it pervades the air in a choking miasma, poisoning all in its path. Try as they might, not even the strongest cinder-sage or cinnamon-clove will be able to cover it up.

Maybe he will request to be buried in the ground in the Earth Kingdom fashion. He has had enough of burning.

The sage drones on, listing every notable deed of Ozai’s reign. Even for the span of less than a decade, the list is conspicuously sparse, rushed in parts and embellished in others. It makes for short reading. 

Zuko is grateful. He isn’t sure how much longer his legs will support him; the only thing holding him upright is the last vestiges of his honor and his stiffly starched ceremonial collar. 

He’s grateful, too, for the mourning period that means he will not have to deliver a speech of his own today. His mouth is dry, his head blank, and his heart feels unsteady.

He’d never been very good at giving speeches; his oratory instructors always complained about too much fidgeting, too little eye contact, etcetera etcetera. Azula was always the brilliant one, a rhetorical genius. He wonders what she would say. He sneaks a glance to his left. He’s not sure how you could spin murder into a compelling speech, but if anyone could it would be Azula.

Finally the sage nears the end of the eulogy.

“Ozai. Fire Lord to our nation for six years. You were our fearless leader, our matchless conqueror of the eastern provinces and the Impenetrable City.”

Azula’s expression, appropriately placid and mournful, twitches. Her eyes are dark and dry as the Si Wong.

“You were son of Azulon, now passed. Husband of Ursa, now passed. Father of Zuko and Azula.”

Zuko wills his face to remain impassive. His hands shake, concealed under the long trailing sleeves.

“We lay you to rest.”

A respectful pause as they light the pyre. His heart pounds inside his chest, too-fast as he kneels. The sage places the five pronged flame into his short, frantically styled topknot. It feels too heavy, unsteady, like it might topple at any second.

“Long live Fire Lord Zuko!”

He rises to his feet. The crowd kowtows, falling to their hands and knees as they pay their respects. The cheering is subdued, but he barely registers the sound over the buzzing in his ears. 

The sun crawls over the edge of the caldera, blinding him in its intensity. The searing light burns into his retinas, consuming his vision until all he can see is white.

He turns away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Fun fact: one of the working titles for this fic was “turn away from the sun.” It was a little too derivative for my taste though so I changed it to “[insert pretentious fire title]” so yeah.
> 
> As always, credit to [Muffin-sama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuffinLance/pseuds/MuffinLance) for various concepts and characters. Cinder-sage was taken from [The Healing Properties of Cinder Sage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178822) by [Dawen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawen/pseuds/Dawen)  
> I don’t really talk about it much beyond a brief mention, but I do recommend reading the story it comes from, I enjoyed it!  
> I also recommend checking out the [@atlaculture](https://atlaculture.tumblr.com/) tumblr for more cool worldbuilding details based on real-life cultures! It has been a really interesting and helpful resource.  
> Everything else is from either the Avatar wiki or my brain.
> 
> (I might compile an official list of all my worldbuilding notes for future reference, so let me know if anyone would be interested in that!)
> 
> If you want to chat about my fic or just avatar in general check out my new discord server: [avatar: the last fic server](https://discord.gg/T92fzwr)  
> (come talk to me I’m bored)
> 
> Thanks for reading this far, if I go on any longer the author’s notes will outpace the actual chapter, haha. Please stay tuned!
> 
> (Seriously,, don’t expect daily updates... been sitting on this one for a while now... don’t do premed kids.)


	5. + confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azula breaks her silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s been a bit since I’ve posted, I’ve been in kind of a slump writing-wise and the past weeks have been super busy! Mainly with studying for finals and obsessing over the Mandalorian, hah. 
> 
> Thanks to [mindbending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindbending/pseuds/mindbending) for inadvertently inspiring me to write again, all her stuff is good but her [Two Drama Queens Loose on a Shirshu](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974361) series gives me life. If you’re reading this then thank you! 
> 
> Anyway I love you all and thank you for the essays in the comments, I am absolutely living for it. Hope you enjoy!

She corners him in the hall. He’s managed to ditch his admittedly persistent guard detail, slipping into the familiar shadows of the palace halls to escape the chaos. He’s starting to regret their absence now.

Azula leans cat-like against a pillar, rising fluidly to her feet as he approaches. Her white robes are stark against the shadowy alcove, like a malevolent spirit sent to block his path. 

“Might I request a private audience, Fire Lord Zuzu?”

He flinches at the reminder.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Fire Lord? Zu-zu?”

She stretches out the syllables mockingly, languishing in his discomfort. 

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do, brother. Surely one can pursue a friendly conversation with their sibling without being subjected to such rudeness. Rather uncouth behavior for royalty,” she purrs, idly examining her claw-like nails.

”What do you want?” he snaps.

Azula laughs, bright and jagged, the sound splitting the air like lightning.

“Oh, Zuzu. I didn’t think you had it in you,” she grins viciously. It stretches a little too wide at the edges, not reaching her eyes.

“Honoring the family tradition I see. And here I thought all those visits to dear Uncle Traitor had turned you soft. It seems the cherry-apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all.”

“Shut up.”

Her smile widens another degree, unhinging like the jaw of a rat-viper.

“Did you enjoy it? Did you see the look in his eyes? Was he screaming when he died?” Her tone rises with every word, shrill and jeering.

“Shut up!” 

She lets out an ugly sound, half laugh, half snarl.

“He was MINE! You took him from me! It wasn’t enough you had all of Mother’s love, you had to take Father from me too.”

His blood boils as he remembers that final conversation with his father. For once he feels completely present, weighed down by his certainty.

“He never loved you. He never loved anyone but himself.”

Azula steps closer, eyes wild, movements choppier than usual.

“He loved me! He had to. I earned it. I wasn’t like you. Mother thought I was a monster but Father always said I was perfect. It’s not my fault you never learned better after she left,” she spits.

The thought of Mom smothers his outrage, filling his heart with icy hatred.

“He killed her,” he replies coldly.

She stills. 

“She never left. He killed her and he was going to do the same to me so I killed him first. And I’m not sorry he’s dead. He deserved it.”

The silence is a tangible thing, like he could reach out and shatter it with a touch. 

Azula slides to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut, slowly letting out more of that sharp-edged laughter. It echoes around the empty hall. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself like Uncle always taught him. The torches breathe with him. He can feel his heartbeat, which had been erratic ever since the incident, settle into a steadier rhythm.

Slowly Azula sits up again. Her smile grows until it nearly splits her face open in a grotesque display.

“My, my, Zuzu! Such killer instinct! Maybe we are related after all,” she says between gasps of laughter, flaying the air with every jagged breath.

The barb cuts deep into his calm facade. He hates that rumor. She had loved to repeat court gossip like an iguana-parrot when they were younger, and that particular tidbit had been one of her favorites. Later on after he was banished, he’d have fought countless Agni Kais in defense of his mother’s honor if not for Uncle’s pacifying influence. Now he’ll never even know if there was any truth to it.

He brushes the thought aside. 

“You’re my sister, Azula. He might not have cared about you but I do.”

“No. He cared about me. I was good, I was perfect, I was useful,” she insists, almost pleading.

“He was only using you.”

“He loved me! I’m better than you. He had to love me!”

She moves as if to attack, settling into a kata but the flames never come. He takes it as a good sign.

“You’ve always been better than me, La-la. You’re better than him, too. You know it’s true.”

She stops and frowns, looking down at her hands. 

Zuko hopes she won’t challenge him to another Agni Kai. He doubts his heart could handle it, and he doesn’t have the emotional capacity left to deal with this. 

Azula is still uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t push. It’s a fragile quiet, almost like a concession, an unspoken apology.

“It was supposed to be perfect. I had everything planned out. I gave you everything you ever wanted. Your honor, your home, your throne.” Her voice starts out a near whisper but grows with every word, accusing.

“All you had to do was sit down and accept it. But you just had to get interfere and now you’ve ruined everything!” 

“Azula…”

“I let you take the credit. I covered up your little visits. I even let you have the throne! And how do you repay me? By plotting treason behind my back!”

“It wasn’t—“

“Oh, don’t make me laugh. You think no one noticed those swords? Your little war balloon? The walls have ears, Zuko.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. Beneath her constant veneer of cruelty Azula sounds almost… concerned?

He takes a breath. 

“This war is wrong, Azula. It needs to end. And I’m going to be the one to end it.”

She laughs. This time the sound is less raw and more sharply amused. 

“Good luck convincing the Council and the War Ministry of that, Zuzu.”

“Thanks,” he says, completely sincere.

The look of smug fondness on her face curdles into annoyance.

“You know, I could take the throne at any time, really,” she says offhandedly, as if she were simply suggesting a stroll by the turtleduck pond and not tantamount to treason.

He sighs.

“I know, Azula.”

“It would be such a shame if those treacherous Dai Li were to act without my approval. They’ve proven themselves to be mudhearted turncoats, no loyalty whatsoever. And there are so many… unsatisfied parties… at court. It would be so easy.”

He thinks she might be trying to warn him in her own spiteful way. He’s oddly grateful.

“I wouldn’t even need to send an assassin. Honestly, Zuzu. I could challenge you for the throne at any time. You know I’d win.” 

“Probably,” he admits. She looks disappointed at his lack of reaction but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He’s so tired.

“After all, it’s like you said: I’ve always been better than you,” she remarks smugly, like the catopus that got the cream. He knows he’s going to regret saying that.

She stretches languidly, leaning back against the pillar. Her posture, while deceptively relaxed, is perfect.

“But you know, it might be useful to have someone to hold onto my throne for a while. After all, there is the matter of my majority. Tedious, that.” She scrunches her nose up in disgust. 

He finds it strangely endearing; it’s one of the few mannerisms that hasn’t been drilled out of her by the Royal Fire Academy for Girls or by her courtly etiquette tutors. Azula had made that same face as a child whenever she was forced to eat green peppers. He didn’t mind them; he would sneak them off her plate when no one was looking. She would give him a haughty look and then break into stealthy giggles. 

The sound of her mockery breaks him out of his nostalgia.

“Maybe you could even be my undersecretary!” she laughs, delighted at the idea. “We could get you one of those ridiculous little hats they wear in the Earth Kingdom. You did look so good in green,” she teases.

He sighs, annoyed. This only seems to encourage her, as she breaks into a fit of giggles. For once the sound is almost happy. 

She looks like mom when she smiles.

The resemblance is gone as quickly as it had appeared, as she straightens her posture, haughty expression fixed back in place. 

“Anyway, court is so boring. I suppose you can keep my throne warm for now.”

He bows, the shallow nod of brother to sister. 

“Thank you, Azula.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” she smiles. It’s not a friendly expression. It’s sharp, predatory, like a tigerdillo stalking its prey. 

“Do try to keep the nation together until then. The last thing we need is another Camellia-Peony War,” she smirks.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and means it.

She laughs, and he’s reminded of when they were kids, playing pranks on palace courtiers. It’s still mean-spirited, but not cruel like before. 

“I know you will.”

* * *

As Zuko’s footsteps echo down the hall, Azula slips back into the shadows of the alcove. Dum-dum, she thinks fondly. He’s so easy to play with that it almost isn’t fun anymore. But she has more pressing concerns to deal with at present. 

She holds out her hand, frowning in concentration. Red flames flicker about her fingertips. She extinguishes them with a clench of her fist and kicks the pillar in frustration. The torches don’t even stutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This chapter was a little longer than usual, and I struggled to get Azula’s voice right, but hopefully it was worth the wait!
> 
> If you have any suggestions or things you’d like to see feel free to leave a comment or come join my avatar discord server: [avatar: the last fic server](https://discord.gg/T92fzwr)  
>   
> Thanks for reading! As always updates may be sporadic but stay tuned ;)


	6. + circumnavigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude in which a humble merchant attempts to transport his cargo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Thank you all for the support, the past month has been very busy what with finals and recovering from surgery and what have you. I have been pretty overwhelmed lately between school and everything happening and I know many of you have been too so I hope you enjoy :)

On the eastern reaches of the island capital, far outside the caldera, a merchant painstakingly reloads his cart. 

Crates upon crates of ash bananas, all carefully balanced. He shifts a crate which had been tipping precariously towards the center. Finally satisfied with the arrangement, he continues his journey, the cart wheels creaking wearily under the weight of the load.

He stops abruptly when he sees the road ahead.

The guard outpost is unexpectedly manned at the early hour, a single guardsman standing outside the gate which controls the pass. It’s closed.

The merchant curses to himself. 

“Who goes there?” the bored voice of the guard sounds from further up.

He holds his breath and hopes this is just a border guard and not part of the agricultural guild. The last thing he needs right now is an inspection. He smothers the embers of panic and replies. 

“I am Xiang Jiao, of Hing Wa Island. I’m headed to Northern Chung Ling to sell my wares.”

The guard takes a cursory look at the contents of the cart, but doesn’t move to pull out an inspection scroll. The merchant lets out a small sigh of relief.

“I’d stay away from this route if it were you. Wouldn’t want to bruise your bananas.” He chuckles to himself. 

“What do you mean?”

The guard’s expression sobers. 

“Haven’t you heard? Mogura peak has been stirring lately, but yesterday it started smoking and raining down debris on Ponape village. They say it’s a sign that the Sleeping Giants are awakening so the whole province is under evacuation warning. No passage allowed.”

The merchant gasps sharply. 

“But that range has been dormant for decades! This is terrible!”

The guard nods, face grave. 

“Ordinarily I would tell you to try going through Kirashu, but they’ve been hit hard by the typhoon and there’s still a lot of debris blocking the main roads. Some of the back passes might be clear though,” he suggests.

“My cart can’t handle the mountain pass! I have delicate cargo! And that way will take days! Everything will be wasted… Do you know when the roads will be cleared?”

“Might’ve been cleared by now if they could spare a few from the Capital garrison,” the guard grumbles under his breath. He looks back and sighs.

“Look, your best bet is to charter a ferry and go around Shuhon Island entirely. There’s one that goes to Fire Fountain City if you have the coin. It’ll cost you but you might be able to sell your wares before they spoil and offset some of the cost.”

The merchant curses his luck. 

“Thanks for the tip,” he tells the guard, though he is not feeling particularly grateful.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he gestures to the otherwise empty outpost.

With a sigh, the merchant packs up his cart and makes his way back towards the coast.

* * *

“Documentation please?”

He tries to swipe away the sweat beading on his forehead without looking too conspicuous, rummaging in his robes with his other hand. He hands her the scroll.

She glances over it disinterestedly, then looks up.

“Kind of out of the way for a bunch of ash bananas.”

“It was a special request,” he replies.

She turns away and he breathes a little lighter. He hates the overeager ones; like that fresh young guild apprentice who’d given him a citation last time. He still can’t go through Honshu Port. 

“Hey, wait!”

His heart stops.

“You dropped this. Must’ve fallen out of the cart,” she explains, offering him a slightly squashed ash banana.

Great spirits, he thinks.

“Keep it. It’ll probably bruise. One rotten one will spoil the whole crop.”

She shrugs and pockets the fruit.

“Thanks for the snack then. Safe travels.”

* * *

He leaves Fire Fountain City as quickly as he can with his rickety cart. That statue really is an eyesore, and there are always guards lurking about. The last thing he needs is to have another friendly chat.

Finally he arrives at the private dock. Checking to make sure everything is secure, he unloads the crates onto his ship. He has an arrangement with the magistrate in this province, an old friend who calls in favors from time to time. In return he looks the other way for inspection of the more exotic shipments and stowaways. He’s delivered plenty over the years; countless merchant’s brats trying to evade the draft, a few unlucky minor nobles, and on one memorable occasion, an art minister who’d gotten a little too creative with his poetry.

The man has saved his sake a thousand times, and he never asks for much in return; some inside knowledge, correspondence, his services as a courier. Never outright treason. Until that day.

He owes him. He knows he does.

But even for him this is a big favor.

* * *

The journey is short, the ocean strangely favorable considering the vicious typhoon season they’d been having. Surprisingly they don’t pass by any patrols; most of the fleet has been stationed at Chameleon Bay for the occupation, he supposes. It’s about time for luck to be on his side. 

They reach the shore. His crew busies themselves with tending to the ship while he takes inventory. He moves aside the secret compartment and helps his passenger climb the ladder to the deck. 

“You’ll have to face the rest on foot I’m afraid; this is as far as I can take you. May the spirits smile upon your travels, General Iroh.”

He clasps the man’s proffered hand and receives his payment, along with… a Pai Sho piece? 

“Thank you, Xiang Jiao. Your generosity is appreciated. As is your discretion.”

He pockets the coin and the peculiar tile.

“I have to warn you, my network doesn’t extend to where you’re headed. It might take weeks for the next communication to reach you.”

“It is alright,” he smiles. 

“I have a feeling I may need a little time to breathe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! This chapter was not in my outline (in as much as my outline exists, hah.) Honestly I’ve been kind of stuck because I realized I haven’t actually planned out the plot so much as made a wishlist of stuff I want to happen and supplemented with an excessive amount of lore, so I have been trying to remedy that, resulting in this chapter. Hopefully the next chapter will be easier (and faster.)
> 
> join my discord!! [avatar: the last fic server](https://discord.gg/YZbbNbr)  
> Tell me what you think! I crave validation and comments make me smile :)
> 
> (they also tempt me into procrastinating on my massive course load to write fanfic, you all are too nice.)


	7. + contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko’s first day as Fire Lord starts out with an ambush. A familiar face gives him something to think about as he gets taken down a size.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got my first ever fic rec recently! Thanks to [@atlaculture](https://atlaculture.tumblr.com/post/642416947654459392/fanfiction-recommendation-fulminate) for the recommendation!
> 
> This was originally just an introduction but I decided to split this chapter up because I felt like I would never post it if I kept trying to get to the scene I’ve been trying to write. Plus I felt the tone and the pacing didn’t quite fit the rest of the chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Zuko is surrounded. 

They flank him on all sides, four at least, a potential fifth located nebulously in the blurry peripheral of his bad eye. 

They’re professionals. 

Their implements are honed to a razor edge; they stand at the ready, posture immaculate, like a pack of tiger-pumas ready to pounce. He can see them staring from the corner of his eye, gazes ranging from calculated disinterest to near predatory. 

His guard detail is still nowhere in sight, although somehow he doubts they would be much help. 

He curses his lack of vigilance. He should have known better than to be complacent in the safety of his chambers. 

He’s not sure how they’ve managed to organize this quickly; surely a job on this level would take more than a few minutes to prepare?

He had hoped to have this encounter later or preferably not at all; as it stands he doesn’t have the energy to resist.

The figure in front steps forward. She looks familiar, but he can’t quite place her in his memory. 

“You know I can dress myself,” Zuko greets them, meeting the woman’s gaze. Her face is hard, but he can see the echoes of a smile in the sparrow-crow’s feet around her eyes.

“Your Majesty. We must take your measurements. After all, you will need robes befitting a Fire Lord.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“It is an honor, Your Majesty.” Her tone brooks no argument.

Defeated, Zuko sighs and steps onto the stool they had prepared for this purpose. He had always hated fittings. He could never bring himself to stand still.

Though it seems to take forever, they work with extreme efficiency, wielding their pointy metal implements with deadly precision rivaling Mai and her many knives.

Idly, he wonders whose robes they are tailoring to fit. He knows he had nothing of this calibre in his recently refurbished wardrobe. Surely even the palace seamstress could not work that fast. 

His father is— was— considerably taller than him, always striking an imposing figure. His cousin had been closer to his height, if a bit broader around the shoulders. He looks down at the trailing silk fabric pinned strategically around his body like a shroud. Either way he’s wearing a dead man’s clothes. 

When they have finished sticking him with more needles than a puff-porcupine, after much hemming and hawing the woman deems the work adequate and all but one of her assistants rush to take it to be altered. 

Zuko stands there, unsure of whether he’s allowed to step off the stool now. He hopes they are finished with the impromptu acupuncture session.

He feels naked clad in only his undergarments, chest bared for display. It’s different from his trip to Ember Island; there he had felt like just another face in the crowd. Now he stands alone on his pedestal for everyone to see.

“The armor will have to do until we can have a new set crafted, Your Majesty. Do you have any requests for the specifications?”

He starts, realizing she’s addressing him. 

“Uh— no. Just keep it traditional, nothing too elaborate please.”

She nods, pulling a scroll from some unseen pocket.

Another servant enters the chambers, eyes respectfully averted. 

“Breakfast for His Majesty, courtesy of the cook,” she says, setting down a tray laden with food.

“Thanks,” he says automatically.

She bows, flustered, and rushes out of the room.

He had been largely successful these past few weeks back in the Fire Nation— back home, he reminds himself— at warding off the servants’ attempts at tending to him, insisting on dressing and bathing himself. After so many years of doing everything on his own, not tolerating anyone’s touch, after months of starving and then serving tea in the Earth Kingdom, it seems laughable to be catered to this way.

Still, he won’t waste their efforts. He eats mechanically, almost shoveling the food in his mouth before he remembers his courtly etiquette and flushes. His mother would have scolded him if she could see him now.

As he was finishing his meal, the servants had returned with freshly tailored robes. They stand to the side, waiting silently. 

He’s conscious of every eye on his no longer starved but still too-skinny frame. His cheeks are no longer hollow, his ribs no longer on full display, but he has yet to regain the muscular physique he had cultivated after years of rigorous training. 

He puts down the plate and holds his arms out as they carefully drape the cloth, adjusting the fabric so that it falls in just the right way.

He begrudgingly allows the servants to fix his hair. He’s perfectly capable of doing it himself. But when the woman, who he thinks might have been one of his mother’s old handmaidens, gathers the too-short strands, cupping his head in her hand, he almost leans into the touch, tension leaving his body as she massages his scalp methodically. 

When she is finished, she straightens his robes, aligning the sash in a way that makes it lie perfectly smooth. Gently, she runs her hands over his shoulders, squeezing him reassuringly almost as if in an embrace, and then abruptly releases him, giving him a critical once-over as though looking for invisible wrinkles.

“Thanks,” he rasps, koala-sheepish.

She clucks her tongue like a disapproving sow-hen and hurries him off her stool, all the while ordering around her assistants with militant efficiency.

“I remember you,” he blurts out.

She looks up from her work, startled.

“Lady Hana. You-- you used to tend to my mother,” he says.

You used to brush my hair, he doesn’t add. You used to “accidentally” order too many sticky buns.

She looks back at him and her eyes soften.

“Yes,” she agrees, then smothers the spark of a smile, all professionalism. 

“Now go, go! And don’t you go messing up my sewing, Pri-  
—Your Majesty.” She catches herself quickly. 

“I’ll try my best,” he says, meeting her eyes, and it’s almost like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry I haven’t been posting as often, I’ve been really busy keeping up with my classes and writing is really a struggle for me. Thank you for all your support, I cherish every one of your comments. 
> 
> Also: if you want more of my thoughts on worldbuilding you’re welcome to join the discord! we always need new friends :) [avatar: the last fic server](https://discord.gg/YZbbNbr)  
> 


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